


the older i get

by hiraethia



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Zuko (Avatar) Needs a Hug, fucked up sibling relationship that wasn't always fucked up, growing up and wondering where things went wrong w your family, sponsored by phoebe bridgers n sasha sloan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethia/pseuds/hiraethia
Summary: Those kids were gone. The sun never set the same way, lightning never struck one place twice, and somewhere between all those awful storms and sunrises, Zuko had lost his first best friend a long, long time ago.He tucked his knees up to his chest, camera pressing a brutal mark into his skin. There was nothing else he could do. He wept.OR,zuko and azula were friends, until they weren’t. ten years later, zuko thinks he’s finally okay with that, until he isn’t.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 282





	the older i get

**Author's Note:**

> an open letter to families and my very bitter nostalgia
> 
> hi <3 so i just want to preface this by saying, this fic came from a really personal place. i hope i did zuko & azula justice in here because this is definitely a complicated topic. all i ask is that you please be kind and take care as well
> 
> title comes from older by sasha sloan. listen to the playlist for this fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2ONgTgLF5WOVetTzOrfBs3?si=1BHEX3L3S0amT_6TnS6z0Q) if ya feel like it!

Zuko never meant to go through his mother’s box.

It was just a worn, innocuous-looking shoebox sitting in the back of his closet, hidden behind Zuko’s conveniently placed broadswords and hoodies. It was the only thing his mother had left him before she passed, in a fiery car wreck that took both her and Lu Ten. Uncle Iroh had brought it to him a year after the accident, eyes rimmed with red and lips upturned in the emptiest, tiniest smile. Zuko had never looked in it, maybe because he couldn’t stand the idea of hating whatever she had put inside.

Zuko never meant to go through his mother’s box, until the rest of his room was already emptied clean. 

He was supposed to be packing up the rest of his things so he and Sokka could properly move out in a couple of days. They were going to live in LA, where Sokka could get his master’s in engineering while Zuko could finally reunite with Uncle. His uncle, who he hadn’t seen in four years other than in video calls, because Zuko couldn’t stand the thought of going back to California for the longest time.

Zuko never meant to go through his mother’s box, until it was the only thing left in his bedroom that he hadn’t touched.

Sokka wasn’t due to be back from Iqaluit for another half hour, and Zuko had time to kill. He gingerly rested his swords on his stripped mattress, before sitting down with the box in his lap. He stared at it for a long time, absently tracing a finger over its edges, simultaneously untouched yet worn with loving time. 

Zuko never meant to go through his mother’s box, until, with trembling fingers, he pried open the lid.

* * *

It was simple. So small and strangely anticlimactic for something that had been a ghost for half his life. A camera sat, tucked away safely in the corner, nestled amongst piles of photos and a couple of batteries. 

(There was no note or explanation).

((He didn’t know if he felt more disappointed or relieved)).

Slumping back against the bed, Zuko picked up the first photo he saw. A small smile twitched at his lips, though something painful flared sharply in his chest at the sight of it. 

He couldn’t have been older than seven in there, round, unscarred, dirt-smudged cheeks lifted in a toothy grin. Beside him was a little girl, smile just as young and brilliant, hands gripping his shoulders as he held her close with one arm. Their hair was a disheveled mess, but neither of them looked worried about it at all.

As Zuko kept staring at them, he felt his own smile begin to fall, because there was a name stirring in his chest like an old haunting, and it sounded an awful lot like - 

_“Azula! You got me!” Zuko clutched his chest and pretended to collapse into the dirt as his sister caught up to him, giggling and falling to her knees beside him._

_“Zuzu’s dead!” she chanted, still laughing as she reached out, patting his cheeks with her tiny hands. Zuko let his head loll to the side as she pounced on him._

_He waited just long enough until her laughter died down, until he felt a gentler touch on the side of his face, tapping lightly._

_“Zuzu?” He struggled to stifle a smile when Azula tapped him again, poking at his nose and mouth. He waited until she fell completely quiet before springing up from the ground._

_“Waa!”_

_Azula shrieked when he looped an arm around her and tugged her down with him. She didn’t push him away, only tucking her head under his chin and muffling another giggle into his shoulder._

_They stayed there, illuminated by droplets of sunshine, until Zuko heard their mother step out into the garden. There was a strange smile on her face - not entirely happy and not entirely sad - as she looked down at him. Zuko hadn’t known the word for it back then, but it was something terribly -_

Wistful, like she was sure she had lost something great, only she didn’t know what it was yet. Zuko thought that if he’d known the word back then, he would’ve carved it into his own bones, if only to remind himself what it was he was about to lose. 

They’d been trying to escape an afternoon of more dreadful English speaking and grammar lessons. Their father was a businessman with many international clients, so he’d forced English on them since they were young. Zuko remembered many days where the rules and structures swam in his head instead of sticking like they were supposed to, days where he’d sneak out of his room and drag Azula out to play instead of studying. 

And his sister had loved it, until she didn’t. Until Ozai put an end to their “slacking off,” spitting venom in harsh words and even harsher punishments. Until, two years later, Azula began surpassing Zuko in every subject, not just English. 

Until Ozai began poisoning the both of them - one with a love that was nothing more than an empty, filthy promise, and one with a hatred that was nothing less than fire to the skin and bruises deeper than marrow.

Zuko’s grip tightened around the photo as he stared at his and Azula’s smiling faces. 

He couldn’t recognize them. Not because Zuko wasn’t scarred, not because Azula was grinning, but because her hands were pressed against his shoulders not to shove him away, but to hold on. 

Unable to look at them any longer, Zuko set the photo aside and sifted around for something else.

There was another one of them, tucked snugly against each other underneath a cherry blossom tree. Petals fluttered down around them like snow, and if Zuko looked closely enough he could see crowns of - 

_Gentle pink and pearl white, haloing their heads. Azula kept wrinkling her nose, because she never liked the smell of sakura even though it was one of Zuko’s favorite scents in the world. Maruyama Park had some of the best cherry blossoms in all of Kyoto, and their mother always took them there every season to watch the flowers kiss the ground._

_“Sakura means the beginning of spring,” his mother told him, one arm wrapped tightly around Zuko’s shoulder while the other plucked fallen blossoms out of Azula’s hair._

_“Then why do they fall so quickly?” Zuko asked. There was that smile on her face again, as she looked down at him._

_“Life,” she said quietly, “it all comes by so fast, but it’s beautiful while it lasts.”_

_When the sky finally darkened, she began to take them home. Zuko slipped away from his mother’s grasp and headed back to where Azula had started lagging behind, staring at the ground and dragging her feet with a strange look on her face._

_He ignored his mother’s calls and instead plucked a blossom from the ground, tucking it behind Azula’s ear, a splash of pink against inky black._

_“Stop it, Zuzu,” she complained, even though she didn’t move to take it out. Zuko smiled and didn’t bother ducking when she threw a handful of petals at him in retaliation._

_Life passed by too fast, his mother said, but all Zuko could think about was how he wished these moments with his baby sister could last forever. Maybe if he wished hard enough, they really would. Because home was always dark no matter how light it was outside, and he thought his sister looked so happy even with the sakura she hated in her hair._

_In the end, though, his mother had always been right, because -_

She died a week after Zuko turned ten, and Azula hadn’t cried but Zuko could tell she wanted to. Uncle Iroh couldn’t stand to stay in Kyoto anymore and left for a year, and it was awful, how quickly everything started falling apart.

Ozai only grew colder and crueler, memories blossomed and rotted like sakura in the spring, and they didn’t go back to Maruyama Park anymore. 

Zuko had tried, only once, to bring Azula a cherry blossom he’d found on the street, on his way home from school. Her face had twisted with grief and anger, and Zuko could only watch helplessly as she burned the petals in the fireplace. She’d called him stupid and useless, because flowers were never going to bring _his_ mother back, the syllables cutting like knives. 

(It was the first time Zuko had heard his own father’s words out of her mouth, but it was far from the last).

Inhaling sharply, he let the photo flutter to the bottom of the box. It landed next to one of them standing on the beach - hearts not yet broken as they smiled beneath the sun. Behind them was Lu Ten, grinning widely with his arms wrapped around both their shoulders. 

It was one of the last happy moments they had as a whole family. Zuko knew that much. He could still remember hearing his mother laughing softly in the back, arms crossed over her chest as Uncle Iroh - 

_Lowered the camera to shoot an unamused glare at some mysterious entity hovering just above Zuko and Azula’s heads._

_“Lu Ten, you are too tall. I cannot fit you in here.”_

_His cousin guffawed, before reaching up and ruffling their hair, effectively ruining their top knots. “Sorry, Father, just tell Zuko and Azula to grow faster!”_

_Zuko made an affronted noise while Azula swatted Lu Ten’s hand away. “Take that back!” he said. Lu Ten stuck his tongue out._

_“No way, cousin.”_

_“Do it, right now!”_

_“Sorry, Zuko. Oh - smile!” Lu Ten grabbed the top of his head and gently but firmly turned him back toward the camera, just in time for the camera flash to finally go off. Zuko blinked before pouting, as Lu Ten released them and sauntered up to Uncle to take a look. He didn’t pout for long, running up after his cousin._

_Their father was gone for the week. Neither he nor Azula had to be perfect for a week, yet somehow this moment, surrounded in warmth and shrouded in shimmering laughter, was the most faultless thing._

_And Zuko was naive, soft, and scared enough to think that maybe, just maybe, even when his father did return, things would be alright. Because he had everyone he loved right here, yet -_

Zuko sometimes wondered if Uncle would’ve come back for them at all. If it wasn’t for Ozai putting fire to his face, when Zuko had finally broken and yelled at him in stumbling English for ruining his own clients.

He couldn’t remember much of that year, even now, but all he knew was that Uncle _had_ come back. He’d taken care of Zuko as he began his haphazard healing, screaming himself awake from pain and nightmares more often than not. Only when the wound on his face scarred over did Uncle bring him and Azula to California, away from Ozai and his failing businesses.

America was awful in its own way. It wasn’t Kyoto, where home was sakura kissing their hair and lost, stilted joy and overpowering grief and cold, blue rage. It wasn’t anything at all.

It was Azula’s sullen, empty glare in a place she knew nothing about. It was the permanent downturn of her lips and the shadows that made their way beneath her dark eyes. It was the sorrow and horror in Zuko’s heart that pounded with every loud voice and raised hand. It was the winter that stayed, far longer than any cherry blossoms ever could.

It was Azula hating Uncle for taking them in, and hating Zuko for whatever it was their father had told her to hate about him.

Zuko was angry and hurt and scared. He tried to hate her right back - and some days were easier than others. Those were the days when she would sneer at him in school, lips twisting in a scowl as she mocked the lingering accent that still warped some of his words. Those were the days when she covered her left eye with a hand and hissed that _Father must’ve been disappointed the damage wasn’t worse_. 

Those were the days it was so easy to hate her.

(But Zuko didn’t know how to hold on to grudges, not like she did).

((No, he swallowed his pain and wondered if it was possible to drown in the honey of Uncle’s concerned eyes and Mother’s ghostly kisses and childhood memories)).

High school began, and Zuko didn’t make many friends while Azula stayed out more and more often with Mai and Ty Lee. They both went to therapy, and Zuko wondered what his sister talked about. If Azula talked about him as much as he spat and ranted and whispered about her. 

Eventually, Zuko stopped trying to make amends for a mistake that he told himself wasn’t his. Eventually, Azula’s barbed insults died away into silence. Uncle never quite smiled at her the same way he smiled at Zuko, and part of him wondered if that was why Azula stopped hurling blades and venom at him.

Because cherry blossoms wouldn’t bring their mother back, wouldn’t give Azula back the time and love she’d never quite gotten from _her_ , and neither would Ozai’s fire and poison.

As Azula faded into silence, Zuko felt a grave in his own heart finally begin to settle. 

He didn’t know at what point he’d started accepting that he and Azula were never going to be the same. But somewhere along the line, his sister had turned into another phantom. She was alive, she was _right there_ , but she wasn’t. They just existed around each other - two ghosts haunting the same space.

When Zuko had gotten accepted into the University of Toronto, he’d known immediately that he would take the offer. He couldn’t stand America, couldn’t stand the way California had begun with excruciating pain and now left him with grief like a chronic flare in his joints. He couldn’t stand going back to Japan, where cherry blossoms fluttered without anybody’s head to fall upon, where he’d lost his family and part of himself as well. 

(Azula hadn’t gone with Uncle to send Zuko off. But she’d padded into the kitchen the morning his flight was supposed to leave, still dressed in loose pajamas with her freshly cut hair just barely brushing her shoulders. 

She’d cast one glance at him, and something twisted in her eyes. Zuko had stared back at her, throat tight with years of unspoken words and questions.

Then, Azula had frowned, muttering, “Goodbye, Zuko,” before turning away).

They hadn’t truly spoken for the longest time. Zuko would text her for the holidays, and every now and then, Azula would curtly reply with her own updates. She’d gotten into college in New York and was pursuing political science there - and even though they were only an eight hour drive apart, neither of them had visited each other once.

With a tight exhale, Zuko tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

He didn’t know when or why his mother had started putting together all the photos. Maybe she was just like him. Maybe she wanted their springtime memories together to last longer than a mere season.

But Zuko could only slump farther back, because it didn’t feel like spring anymore, it felt like the harshest winter was howling and tearing his ribs apart.

(Being in college, away from his family and surrounded entirely with new people, had helped. It didn’t fix him completely, but it _had_ helped. He made new memories, ones that blossomed deep in his own marrow. Running into Sokka in the library, the same place where they would have their first kiss, long after it closed. Screaming at the karaoke bar with Toph by his side, while Suki and Yue filmed from the sidelines. Cheering and jumping when Katara’s essays were finally published in one of their best academic journals. Laughing until he cried when Aang’s guinea pig - Momo, of _all_ the names - pissed on Zuko’s chest after getting far too comfortable there.

Zuko was okay now. He had been okay for a long while, ever since leaving LA and coming here all by himself. It had been a hellish journey to get there, and he’d slipped backwards more times than he could count, but he was _okay_ ).

((He was okay, even with Azula not being there in his new spring)).

Now, everything was coming back in torrents. And Zuko wasn’t sure he really wanted to open his mother’s camera to see what was inside of it, but his fingers were slipping in the spare batteries anyway, and the screen flickered to life with the first shaky video.

The camera focused on Azula first. The date in the corner of the screen said she was four years-old then, toddling about with a toothy smile. Zuko’s own hands started trembling when the video shifted to include him in the frame - young and bright and shuddering with laughter. 

In the video, he held out his arms. Azula stopped sucking on her thumb long enough to immediately come over to him. 

She eventually stumbled into his chest, small arms coming up to wrap around his waist, and Zuko could barely hear her voice over his own mother’s chuckles, but she whispered -

_“Love you, Zuzu.”_

_Zuko squeezed her tighter and pressed a noisy kiss to the top of her head. For once, he thought he really was happy, so happy. Because nothing would separate them. They would be friends forever._

_“Love you too, ‘Zula,” he said gleefully, rocking her about. He took a deep breath, and -_

His throat ached like he’d swallowed glass. His chest hurt like there was a gaping canyon sitting between his heart and his ribs. Something whistled emptily inside him every time he breathed, and if he listened closely enough, it sounded like trees rustling in the breeze and a laugh that wasn’t laced with malice.

He didn’t know when he’d started to cry, but something heavy kept rolling down his cheek. Zuko shut his eyes tightly, tearing apart a soft sob that threatened to well up between gritted teeth.

_Why did this happen to us? When did it fall apart?_

There was no one there to answer him.

Because those kids were _gone_. The sun never set the same way, lightning never struck one place twice, and somewhere between all those awful storms and sunrises, Zuko had lost his first best friend a long, long time ago. 

He tucked his knees up to his chest, camera pressing a brutal mark into his skin. There was nothing else he could do. He wept.

* * *

“Babe, I’m home!” 

Sokka kicked the door shut with his heel, dropping his bags in their little hallway. Slinging his old anorak over his shoulder (because _yes_ , Katara, he was too emotionally attached to it to _not_ bring it to hot-ass California with him), he headed toward the kitchen with a bounce in his step.

He still couldn’t believe they’d graduated college. Sokka had only lived in Toronto for the last four years, but he’d grown up in Iqaluit. This place was his home, his blood, his life - and the idea of leaving for somewhere else entirely was terrifying and surreal. 

He’d always had a problem with leaving things behind. Even moving out to college was a little bit hellish, but Sokka was getting better at realizing that not all partings were permanent. He could still take bits of home with him - his necklace, his anorak, his language. He’d call his dads every day and keep the little photo of his mom kissing the top of his head tucked inside his phone case. He’d probably even come back to find a job around here as soon as he finished his master’s degree. 

He had a plan. It was a good one, and despite the anxiety wriggling about in his chest, he couldn’t help but smile. 

Because he was going to be okay. Bato bragged about him to practically everybody, and Hakoda had pulled him aside last night to whisper to him how proud of him his mom would’ve been too; and Katara had cried right along with him when he got his acceptance into the USC’s engineering program; and Gran Gran had hugged him so tightly before dragging him into the kitchen to begin cooking. 

(And he wouldn’t be alone in California, anyway).

((Zuko hadn’t even hesitated before agreeing to move out with him, grabbing him by the waist and twirling him around with sunshine laughter bursting from his chest)).

Sokka busied himself unpacking the bannock Gran Gran had given him, humming quietly. He was so distracted that he didn’t even notice nobody had answered him yet, only looking up a few minutes later when he realized it was much too quiet.

“Zuko?”

Still no answer.

Draping his anorak over the couch, Sokka started heading toward their bedrooms. Zuko was supposed to be home - Sokka had practically forced his boyfriend not to come pick him up so that he could finish his own packing. It wasn’t unusual for Zuko to get so lost in his thoughts he forgot his surroundings, though Sokka had expected him to be done by now.

“Thanks for the _warm_ welcome, babe,” he teased, lightly pushing open the door to Zuko’s room, only to freeze in place.

Because there was Zuko, curled up against the foot of the bed. His head was pillowed in his arms, but that did nothing to muffle the sounds coming out of him - raw and bleeding and haunting.

Sokka rushed to his side, ignoring the sudden pounding of his own heart. He didn’t touch him, though his hands hovered uselessly in the air.

“Zuko,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

That was all it took for his sobbing to stutter, for Zuko to clumsily wipe at his own face, as if that was going to do anything, and turn so Sokka could only see his scar.

“H-Hey, Sokka,” he hiccupped, voice hoarse and scraped empty. It only hurt more.

“Sunshine, what’s wrong?” 

Zuko was barely breathing, each inhale stuttering and as broken up as he looked. Sokka reached out, slowly enough that he’d have time to pull away. When he didn’t, he wrapped his hand around Zuko’s own and pressed light kisses against his knuckles.

He tried again after a long minute of silence.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Zuko coughed, rubbing harshly at his eyes again. He didn’t pull away from Sokka’s grasp.

“You j-just got back, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to - have to take _care_ of me all the time,” he said shakily. “You’re - you’re more than that. I’m _fine_ , I should be fine. Just give me a fucking minute.” 

“Those aren’t your words, Zuko. Who said them to you?” Sokka rubbed circles with his thumb across the back of Zuko’s hand, kissing his fingers again. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s alright. If you want to, I’m all ears. I _want_ to be here, okay?” 

He made a show of getting comfortable, settling down right next to Zuko, wedged between the bed and the wall, and tugging him close against his side. His boyfriend fell easily, tucking his head against Sokka’s shoulder like it was muscle memory. 

After several long minutes - not that Sokka was counting - he felt something drop into his lap. He looked down to see that Zuko had handed him a camera. When he didn’t do anything else, Sokka picked it up and flicked it on.

Immediately, his heart dropped when he saw what it was.

Sokka knew about Zuko’s family. Knew about his mother and cousin who had passed in a car accident, knew about his father who tried to break him. An old, familiar anger stirred in his gut at the mere thought of it.

But he’d never known much about Zuko’s sister - only that the girl was the reason why Zuko would sometimes look at him and Katara with a wistful sadness in his eyes. Zuko never mentioned her much, only smiling blankly whenever Sokka asked about her and saying that she was doing well in school, or something shallow like that.

This was the first time he’d seen her face - round and bright, with an undisturbed smile. She waddled toward a boy who he could only assume was a younger Zuko. Sokka inhaled sharply as he watched them embrace and giggle, laughter turned tinny by the old camera.

Beside him, Zuko started shaking again. That was all Sokka needed before setting the camera aside and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

“There’s more.” Zuko’s voice was muffled against Sokka’s chest. “My - my mother left photos. She’d been collecting them for a while, apparently.” 

“Mm.” Sokka hummed in soft acknowledgement, and maybe that was all Zuko needed to hear before he finally started talking.

“I never looked at them. I didn’t even know they were there. I didn’t know they’d be - _this_.” Zuko sounded bitter and angry and _hurt_ in a way he hadn’t been for a while. “I don’t think Azula - she doesn’t remember the way we were, not like I do. She never talks about Kyoto, never talks about anything with me anymore. I-I don’t know what she does with her friends either. She just looks at me and sees someone else, but - but _I_ know we weren’t always like that.”

Zuko stared down at his hands, like he thought if he looked at them hard enough, he could drag a few halcyon memories, kicking and screaming, back to life.

“I keep asking myself, ‘Where did it all go wrong?’” He looked up, and Sokka felt his own heart break. The words kept coming out, blood from a wound that had never fully closed. “I don’t think there was a point where it went to shit. It just started rotting. That’s the worst part - I don’t remember _when_. Maybe if I knew when, I could fix it, but I don’t. All I know is nothing is the same, and it never will be.” 

He only trailed off when another wounded sob wracked his body, and Sokka squeezed him tighter. His own mind raced wildly as he tried to figure out what to say. 

This wasn’t something that Sokka knew how to fix. This was something that had been festering and decaying and _thriving_ for years. He didn’t know how badly Zuko had been hurting, but clearly it was awful, the way he was shaking apart in Sokka’s arms.

But Sokka was no stranger to grief. He knew it like an old friend, and while it hadn’t come to visit him in a while, he knew its motions and words and fading phone number like it was still scribbled - carved - on the back of his hand.

He took a deep breath, thought for a while more, and started talking.

“Remember when I told you about my mom?” Zuko stiffened, but Sokka went on. “It’s far from the same, but it _was_ really hard, for a long time, to live with my family - after. Everything reminded us of her. When I think of her now, all I see is Katara’s face. And for the longest time, my dad couldn’t look at me, because I took after her too.” 

“ _Sokka_.”

“Zuko.”

He shook his head. 

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t reopen your own wounds for this. I don’t want you to.” 

Sokka’s heart was cracking with honey and pain. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against Zuko’s.

“Just listen to me for a bit, okay? Thank you for checking in. I promise it’s okay. I know my own boundaries.” 

When Zuko fell silent again, Sokka began rubbing circles against his back, lips pursing as he searched for the right things to say. 

“I felt like...I was betraying her,” he said slowly, and Zuko made a pained sound. “Because I just wanted us to be okay again. Because I didn’t remember her the same way Katara or Dad did. Even now, I sometimes feel like I’m betraying her. Definitely not as much anymore, but - sometimes I just realize, I’m a different person now, because of what happened. And I’ve made peace with that loss now. I had to.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Zuko mumbled.

“Right, and it isn’t yours either.” 

Sokka swallowed past the familiar lump in his throat, and smiled. Talking about his mom was always bittersweet - though these days, it was sweeter than not. 

“I do remember her in my own ways, though. It took me a long time to figure that out, but just because your memories look different, doesn’t mean they weren’t there. It doesn’t mean your love was wrong,” he said softly. “You can let them haunt you, a little, but you’re still here and you’ve survived. Healing and living for yourself doesn’t take any of that away.” 

He reached down and wiped away a stray tear that had slipped down Zuko’s cheek again.

“The older I get, the more I realize, we have to spend so much time trying to forgive ourselves, you know?” he said. “There’s nothing to forgive, really, but we still feel like we have to. I know it’s bitter work. I know it hurts, and you just want to wish things back to life sometimes.” 

Zuko made a sad noise that he smothered against Sokka’s shoulder. Lifting a hand, Sokka carded his fingers through his silky hair. 

“We’re both so young, and you’ve still got time to figure things out with your sister, if you really want to,” he sighed. “You have a whole lifetime ahead of you both, and there’s going to be so much trial and error.” 

Then, he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to Zuko’s temple. He whispered the next words against his skin, hoping, _somehow_ , they would stick. 

“But even if it doesn’t work out, Zuko, I still want you to forgive yourself for it.” 

(The wish settled between them like dust. Zuko didn’t move, and neither did Sokka). 

((Sometimes the world felt so big and insatiable, like no amount of cruelty it swallowed would ever fill its empty core. The only thing they could do was hold on, wait for the storm to come to its whimpering end)).

And it did end, minutes or eternities later.

Zuko shifted, sniffling quietly. 

“I wish we could’ve learned that with them,” he said brokenly.

And, oh, wasn’t that the worst thing?

They would always, _always_ learn, and no one would wait for their hauntings to catch up with them. 

Sokka kissed Zuko’s forehead again, lingering there. This time he felt arms come up to circle his waist in return.

“For what it’s worth, Zuko,” he said after a long while, “I think Toph is basically your honorary little sister already.” 

He snorted halfheartedly. “I’m never getting rid of her.”

“Damn right you aren’t.” Sokka’s legs were getting a little cramped from sitting in the space between the open closet and the bed, and he tried (and failed) to stretch them out. “Want to get up, babe?” 

Zuko mumbled something under his breath, but took Sokka’s hand and clambered to his feet. He hesitated for a moment, like he wasn’t sure where to drift to. Sokka kept him close, wrapping an arm around his back. 

“You feel up to eating a bit? I’ve got some bannock, and we can order in if you want.” He made a show of looking around. “Your room looks great, by the way. _Love_ what you did with the bed. How do you think you’re going to sneak the swords onto the plane?” 

Zuko laughed wetly, even though his eyes were still teary. It was a much better look than the shattered hurt from before. Sokka would take what he could get.

Before he could actually leave, he felt his foot brush up against something. Sokka glanced down, then picked up the camera on the ground. He held it up to Zuko.

“You want to take this with us?” 

For a long time, Zuko stared at it. His lips turned down in a frown, but something different set in his eyes. 

Something a lot like fire and fight.

He reached out, took the camera, and set it right next to his swords. Then he nodded, only once.

Sokka couldn’t help but grin fiercely.

“I’m really proud of you, sunshine,” he said softly. He got a watery smile in return. 

“‘M proud of you, too,” Zuko whispered. He reached out, and Sokka laced their fingers together. 

Later that night, they would crawl underneath the covers of a bare mattress and press themselves together in the aftermath of a storm. Later that night, beneath the shelter of a spare blanket they’d dug out of the closet, Zuko would show him the rest of the photos from his mother’s box. Later that night, he’d whisper stories of Kyoto and old friendships and cherry blossoms in the spring, unshed tears sitting upon his eyelashes as he smiled and held onto Sokka’s hand.

It wasn’t bitter, and it wasn’t sweet. 

It was just memory.

**Author's Note:**

> i really thought uploading my last fic was scary until writing this one :"/ apologies to zuko for being a means of catharsis for me, had to get this out of my system. i owe him and myself a Big therapy session 
> 
> thanks for reading if you did!! please leave me a comment/kudos if you liked it and are so inclined! :)
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @hi-raethia if you wanna chat x


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